


The First Time They Wished Things Were Different

by The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso



Series: Chronicles of A High Functioning Sociopath and The People That Love Him [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson at Christmas, anxious sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso/pseuds/The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Greg, Mycroft, John, and Sherlock experience a want for things to be different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Time They Wished Things Were Different

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon that the reason Sherlock is sometimes mean is because he is anxious and it's a coping mechanism. Sherlock Holmes has ruined me life thanks for reading.

Sherlock and John fell into a domesticity that was entirely their own. It involved multiple chases around London, in one case it was to a gay bar to both of their disdain, late night take away and tea, experiments gone awry, and the occasional lie-in. Things were as tranquil as they could be for a detective and his partner, something that John Watson was incredibly thankful for. They spent several months this way and eventually they had their routines figured out.

It was with the intention that things were going so well that John and Sherlock decided to decorate the flat for Christmas that year.

“I am hoping you know that you shall face appropriate retribution for taking me away from the fungi I was observing."

John chuckled. “Those  mushrooms that were going to be used for pasta later? I doubt it. Besides we both know if I hadn't taken you you'd complain about the decorations until after New Year's when I'd be forced to take them down.”

Sherlock raised his chin. “You are not entirely incorrect.”

John smiled fondly at him and observed the baubles that were in front of them.

They spent one day on the weekend and put up their tree and fairy lights. They had had an enjoyable time, which involved biscuits from Mrs. Hudson, tea made by John, and the imposed Doctor Who marathon (special thanks to John once again). The flat was tastefully done (much to Sherlock’s content) and while the decorations were a bit meager they were theirs and they fit into the life of the flat just perfectly.

It was while they were sitting and watching Doctor Who that John mentioned his brother.

“Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft invited us over to theirs for the Christmas party.”

Sherlock said nothing

“They expect us to go, Sherlock.”

Again, nothing.

John moved to sit in his chair across from Sherlock and without a word proceeded to read the paper.

“You want to go.” The words were said as a statement.

John looked over his paper and raised an eyebrow. “They invited us. Greg wanted us to go. So does your brother.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Not likely. That pompous spy is simply going along with Greg’s wishes.”

John started reading his newspaper again. “That’s not a bad thing. He’s trying to get back to connecting with people. Greg is helping him.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, how tedious.”

His brother reconnecting with him was bad enough, but now he had Greg to help. this would surely lead to John joining in as well for the sake of helping his friend. Sherlock abhorred the change; wanted everything to stay exactly as it was. The tide changed and Sherlock felt it pull him in uncomfortable ways.

John frowned, but said nothing. He knew how Sherlock was, how desperate he was for the intimacy and relationships, but it confused him to no end to find that at every chance he fought against the things he wanted.

“Yes.” was all John said.

Sherlock stared for a while, watching as John slowly processed Sherlock’s words.

“We’ll go.”

Sherlock flounced off to their room and John smiled to himself.

**  
  
  
**

They arrived home on Christmas Eve at precisely 1 A.M. Sherlock towed a very drunk John Watson up the stairs. John slovenly hung onto Sherlock and Sherlock merely sighed.

John began mumbling and speaking and slurring. In most cases they rarely felt the need to be irritated when the other was drunk. It had happened on enough occasions to the both of them that they understood and tolerated when the other had been drunk. But this time had been different; this time Sherlock had been subjected to embarrassment as John passed through the festive do and loudly proclaimed annoyance over things involving their private life. Sherlock was sure he would not be attending a social gathering for quite some time. Especially after the smug look Mycroft had given him. The bastard.

Sherlock set John down on the couch and sat in his chair. “Really John, a drinking contest with Lestrade? Surely you must have known you would lose. Speak louder, John.”

John lifted his head sleepily. “Why don’t we do things like tha’, Sh’lock? Mycroft’s was fun.”

Sherlock looked at him, no alcohol to dim the focus in his eyes. John, especially so drunk, found this look unsettling. He looked away.

“You want us to do those things? Throw parties with Yarders and government officials and other insipid people?”

John smiled lazily. “Yeah, yeah sounds nice. Be just like normal people.”

Sherlock scoffed. “My brother is anything but normal.”

John sighed, frustrated. “You know wha’ I mean, Sh’lock.”

Sherlock steepled his hands. “No, John. I cannot understand a word you are saying while intoxicated.”

John crossed his arms. “I mean parties, show people we love each other. We didn't ev'n do a real wedding."

Sherlock immediately stood. “Is that something that you would have wanted? I thought we agreed that there would be no wedding.”

John’s brow furrowed in anger and frustration. “No. You did. I said yes because it’s what you wanted.”

Sherlock walked away. He went into his bedroom, closed the door softly and sat there on the bed. His marriage was one of simplicity, one that he cherished greatly for never in his life had he imagined he would have a best friend, let alone a husband. It had been his firm belief five years prior at the age of thirty that his sociopathic tendencies had been set in their ways and no one could change that. And then John Watson had limped in, so unassuming and yet so important.

Sherlock thought about the party, thought about the way Mycroft had looked at him, looked as though the prattling nonsense about Sherlock’s experiments on the kitchen table was the most embarrassing thing in the world. Sherlock thought of that with scorn, thought of the way Greg and Mycroft had probably kept an immaculate house and would drink wine and laugh by a pretentious fire and be perfectly happy.

For the first time in a great while since primary school, Sherlock wished he was normal, wished that his brain was slow enough to function at a level that was acceptable to those around him. He did not regret his intelligence, oh no, but merely wished he had grown up to be normal, to understand that when a woman asked about her weight you lied, that when men asked what you did you lied, that everyone lied. He sat and thought about it, thought so much in fact that when he finally was brought back it was by a sunrise. The first he had seen in a while.

John Watson woke up from an agonizing hangover to hear the calamity of science equipment being moved and shuffled about. John, very hungover and confused, proceeded to the kitchen to see Sherlock Holmes putting all the equipment in boxes.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” He said softly, begging mentally for him to stop the clanging.

Sherlock began to shuffle more quietly.

“Oh, John, good, you’re awake!” He said in a tone that would have been convincing to any other person, but to John it was unnerving and completely transparent.

“Sherlock, why are you moving your equipment? It’s Christmas.”

Sherlock smiled at him in that way that John loved so much, but it felt wrong somehow.

“Well John, this is my present to you, to finally keep my things in the room upstairs, you know, make it look more liveable here.”

John noticed the tremor in Sherlock’s hand as he carried the boxes up the stairs. What had happened last night? What had they done?

They were at a pub with their friends on New Years’ Eve. Something that John still had a hard time believing, but enjoyed nonetheless. They were talking and chatting and they were both blissfully sober. The entire evening the tremor in Sherlock’s hand was noticed by no one, not even Mycroft. But John saw it once, when someone asked about their day to day life, and Sherlock told them and they said it was strange. The tremor had begun to worry John, as he had thought it might’ve gone away after Christmas, but did not. Ten minutes before the mark of the New Year John noticed Sherlock had disappeared. John scoured the crowd, asked Mycroft, asked Greg, no one could find him.

John found him bent over and clutching his knees against a wall in the alleyway.

John stepped forward carefully when he heard Sherlock hyperventilating.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock immediately stood and wiped his face, and until that moment John hadn’t noticed he had a steady stream of tears flowing. “Oh, John! Sorry,” his attempt to sound as though he was okay were pathetic and John was not afraid to admit that, “I’ll be in in a moment.”

John stepped forward again, his eyes showing nothing but worry and Sherlock knew he could no longer keep this up, could no longer keep telling himself he would try and be the perfect husband.

“Sherlock, stop. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock broke at the word wrong, heard it in his sleep for the past week, for the past year, heard it every time he decided he would do something that he wanted.

“This is what you wanted, John. Normalcy. You said so yourself.”

John felt a rush at the memory of the Christmas party, remembered the argument afterward. How Sherlock had cleaned out his things to be normal, to make it seem as though their flat was normal. He remembered how wrong it felt for the past week to look at the kitchen and not see Sherlock there as he had always had, as he had grown used to.

“Oh. Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded and shook his head rapidly. “It’s fine. It’s all fine, John. I understand completely. You want normalcy, I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

John wasn’t sure what it was, perhaps it was the tears that he had never seen his husband shed, or perhaps the fact that a man so incapable of change was willing to go faster than he was comfortable with, for the sake of John. Perhaps it was that for the first time in quite a long while John saw Sherlock Holmes be vulnerable. Whatever the case may have been, it tore at John to see him that way.

“You idiot.” John whispered, and Sherlock looked him in surprise, his tears slowly ceasing.

“What?” Sherlock said as though he didn’t understand he was the most colossal idiot and the most selfless person John had ever met.

Sherlock saw the way he looked at him, saw him look the way they had looked at each other when they agreed to marry. It was strange, to see him look like that. All conclusive studies led him to believe John would have been upset because of this, because of his inability to walk among those normal people he could barely stand for more than a few hours.

“Sherlock, I never wanted normal. I was drunk for gods sake.” John let out a small laugh.

“But what about what you said about the wedding? I deduced the indications that that was very true.” Sherlock said, slowly come back to himself.

John rolled his eyes fondly.

“Sure I would have liked a wedding, getting to see you in a formal tux would be amazing. But,” he took Sherlock’s hands in the cold, “I never really would have minded. If I got you in the end anyway.”

Sherlock looked at him and spoke the first things that came to mind. “I am fond of you, John Watson. Beyond fond, infatuated. I will give you a wedding if that’s what you desire.”

John smiled at him, and the fireworks exploded over them, and Sherlock cataloged that night because never had he seen John’s eyes as bright, and never had someone looked at him the same way they stared at each other under that explosive sky of a new year.


End file.
